To the Most Irritating Know-It-All I've Ever Met
by RandmWriter
Summary: "Sometimes your friends just have to say goodbye..." John is dying, and writes Sherlock one last letter...
1. Dear Sherlock

**Naturally... I don't own Sherlock Holmes...**

**To the conductor of light and consulting Sherlockian... SoulFireInc!**

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**_"A memory last forever,_**

**_Never will it die._**

**_True friends stay together,_**

**_And never say goodbye..."_**

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**Dear Sherlock,**

God, sounds quite tacky doesn't it? I know you won't have any of that, but I guess it works as a replacement for 'To the Most Irritating Know-It-All I've Ever Had the Misfortune to Meet'.

That wasn't very funny, was it? Sorry. Anyway, if you're reading this, I guess it means I'm dead... Christ - it's like I'm taking this straight out of those awful shows on the telly. Sorry I made you watch that by the way.

Alright... Hm. I forgot what I was about to say. Oh, right. First of all, I have some confessions to make. No point in keeping secrets anymore, right? I want to tell you everything that made me want to strangle you, and I'll put the reasons why I didn't. You can show this to Greg if he needs some tips.

Here it goes:

-Your experiments. God, Sherlock - you don't know how many times I've wanted to throw out that bloody head in the fridge. I didn't because... well I don't think Mrs. Hudson would appreciate it if she found a head in her bins. Oh, right - while I'm away, please don't give Mrs. Hudson a coronary. Lord knows that's the last thing she needs with you as her tenant.

-Your damn violin in 3 in the bloody morning! I know you asked me what I felt about the violin and I never answered you, so here - I'm fine with it, as long as it's not being played by my flatmate while I'm trying to sleep in between your cases and my job (Which _is_ important)... Actually now I'm wondering _why_ I didn't kill you for that... Anyway, don't worry, I won't.

-Your damn ego. I know you have some perfectly good explanation for it, but could you like, shrink it, just a tad? I mean, I know we're all idiots here, but... just make yourself less punchable, yeah? I didn't punch you because... well in all honesty - and I know I'm just adding fuel to the fire here - you _truly _are brilliant - and don't let Anderson or Donovan tell you otherwise.

There, that's all of it.

Now I have the feeling you're wondering why I didn't include things like: you dragging me to crime scenes at 2am, making me run around London, almost getting killed. Well, I didn't mention that, because - as odd as it seems - I'm thankful for it. Thanks mate, for making me feel more alive than ever. Thanks for making that damn limp go away - and thank you for moving in with an idiot like me. It means a lot and what I say will never be enough.

Of course, there's the matter of your whole jump and making me wait two years - and though I'm still quite pissed at you for that - don't worry, I'm honestly fine with it. I forgive you - and I hope you can forgive me for this.

If you're wondering how I am, I'm telling you now: I'm alright. I'm okay. I mean this sickness is giving me hell - and sometimes it hurts like you wouldn't believe - but I know this is harder for you. When my damn suffering ends, yours will begin - and from experience - I know what's harder. So, now I'm writing this with a cup of tea by my side - and honestly - saying goodbye is what hurts the most.

I know you're trying to be brave for me, like I am for you- acting like nothing's happened. Thank you for that. I don't think I can stand having my best friend looking at me as if I'm some handicap, who'll break with the slightest of touch. I know since I'm not there anymore, you'll stop the act, but I hope this letter can comfort you, when I can't anymore.

I know you're sad right now - at least I hope you are. Sorry, that was mean - but... well... honestly I hope you are. I know you probably hate me for this, but... I can't help but wonder - will you miss me?

I know it's such a trivial question - but... will you? God knows how much I missed you in those two years, and - I know this is so selfish - I hope you do the same - because then I would know if I meant as much to you as you meant to me.

I just had to say it.

I know it's ironic - I want you to be happy when I leave, but I want you to be sad too. I guess, in the end... I just don't want you to forget me. I want you to remember me and I don't want you to delete my room from that Mind Palace (It just had to be a palace) of yours. Will you do that for me? I hope you do. If you can do that, then I can't ask for anything else. I'll be happy.

Actually, this is my last confession. I just have to say it. I want to be completely honest with you - and I'm sorry I wasn't while I was still there. Honestly, I'm partly happy that I'm dying. Don't get me wrong - the years I've spent with you have been the best, but... I just - It means that I don't have to see you die before me - because I can't do that Sherlock. I can't. Not again... Damn it, I can't believe I'm welling up now...

Sherlock, I have one last favor. Yes I'm still bossing you around - but please, just do this for me.

Take care of yourself. Eat, sleep, and take cases. _Don't_ try to follow me. _Please_ - or else I'll beat you to a pulp, and - swear to God - I will send you back down so you can insult Sally some more (She really has to be taken down a peg every now and again). Also, don't go back to the drugs. Just fight it. You can. I know you can. Don't let your grief consume that brilliant - and slightly odd - mind of yours. I lasted 2 years without you, Sherlock... but then again - you came back... and I am so sorry that I won't...

Well, if you won't do it for me, at least do it for Mrs. Hudson. I know how much you love her, so please, don't do this to her. She's already losing one of her boys - don't make her lose both...

Now, I've realized something. Actually, there was another reason as to why I didn't throw out your bloody experiments. In the end, I guess I just realized they mattered to you, and - on some level - I guess you'd be upset if you lost one. And I'm sorry I can't spare your feelings this time...

They say that the one left behind is the one who suffers, and I know that. I've fought this battle from your side, and I guess I'm losing this new one against this bloody illness. Nonetheless, I know you can do this. You are much stronger than me in every way (except physically. Seriously, mate, you have to eat more.) and I know you can make it through. I believe in you Sherlock Holmes - just like I did before.

As you've probably deduced - maybe from my pen stroke, or the creases, or whatever - I wrote this part later on. You barged in with a case, so I put this letter down for a bit. Anyway, like I said, you can do this.

Oh, I almost forgot - please don't delete my blog. I hope at least I'm leaving you with the stories of our adventures, even if they are (to you) inaccurate and exaggerated. I hope one day, you can look back at it and smile or even - if I'm lucky - laugh, at the frankly ridiculous tales, of you and a man you once called friend.

Don't worry, Sherlock, I'll wait for you. I did it once, I can do it again...

So... I guess this is it. The game ends - but just for me. I want you to keep playing, because I know you can see it through to the end - just like I did - even if my end was sooner than expected...

Goodbye, Sherlock. It's been brilliant...

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_**"Goodbyes are not forever,**_

_**Goodbyes are not the end.**_

_**They simply mean I'll miss you,**_

_**Until we meet again..."**_


	2. Dear John

**This letter is Sherlock's reply and he leaves it at John's grave... :)**

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_**"I'll come back, when you call me. No need to say goodbye..."**_

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**Dear John,**

Hello... yes, well, here I am. I know it's highly illogical to write to someone who wouldn't even receive this, but that's what they do in movies don't they? The person writes something stupidly sentimental and then is reduced to a sobbing ball of misery - and it conveniently rains outside. Well, don't think I'll do that.

I really don't know what to say, given the circumstances, because frankly, I've never cared about anyone in particular, except perhaps you and my old dog Redbeard. I don't know if that was a compliment - but anyway...

God John, I guess you were wrong. You called me Mr. Punchline once, saying I'd always have the last word. Well, now I can't think of anything to write. Odd isn't it? I'd have to study that...

Can you hear me? Can you see me writing this now? You know my stand on the topic of afterlife, but... Is this what hoping feels like? I guess so, because now I'm hoping that there is one, so we can meet again. I'm hoping that you're getting this - and I'm hoping, that somehow, I'll get the answers to my questions. But I know that I won't.

Interesting business, wishing and hoping. It makes you deny all logic - makes you bend your beliefs in an attempt to get what you want. Honestly, it helps in the beginning, because it gives you a temporary illusion that everything will be alright. But then it turns on you, like most things in life - and the illusion fades, slowly but surely. What served as a warm comfort turns into a sharp sting. It serves as a reminder that it _won't_ happen - that you're not fooling anyone - not even yourself. And then the reality of life hits you harder...

Things are not much different here in Baker Street. Life goes on - thriving outside as if nothing had happened - the people, blissfully ignorant of what lies behind the door labeled with 221B. Our flat is drowned in solemn silence - as if everything had chosen to cease making the slightest of sounds - and to me, it's deafening.

Your bloody blog - with it's horrid titles and embellished stories - has more hits than ever. It's filled with words of sympathy and condolences addressed to your family and me - not that I read it. Your belongings are falling to disuse, for neither I nor Mrs. Hudson dare go into your room - but here I am, waiting in vain for a break in the eloquent dust.

I am currently experiencing the famous five stages of grief, and I think I'm nearing the border of "Acceptance" - but I'm not keen on leaving "Depression" just yet. If I accept, then it will be true, and God knows how much I wish it was not so. But it _is_ true - and this letter has helped me realize it. So let me just ask this question, to get it off my chest.

Why did you have to leave? Just answer me that and I'll be alright... I'll move on with my life.

Actually, I won't. I'd just keep asking more questions, grumbling at the unfairness of it all. Because it _is_ unfair, John. It is...

I don't know what to do, or what to say - so I'll do what I do best: stick to the facts.

-You were my best friend. It's true - and I apologize for not saying it earlier.-You were like a brother to me - even more so than Mycroft.-You are an idiot - but that's alright. I wouldn't want another superior mind, and you are the most tolerable idiot I know.

And finally...

-You made me a good man - and I know how Gavin always wanted that, saying it would happen if they were very very lucky, but no. They didn't have to be lucky. They didn't have to do anything whatsoever - because all that needed to be done, was for you to move into 221B...

What else? I truly don't know what to say. So I guess I'll just say thank you - but that can hardly suffice. It's odd, actually - now, you are the reason of the tightness in my chest and the lump in my throat, but I thank you for it. And though it would be against all logic to feel this way, I truly am thankful. You have taught me what no one else could. You have taught me to feel. I guess I'm a sociopath no longer, but only when it comes to you.

Now, I know I can't bribe you with tea - even if that worked on several occasions - because I know that a hot, non-caffinated beverage will not bring my best friend back... But how I wish it could.

I guess this is what pain feels like, John. This is what it feels like to hurt, and naturally, I don't like it. It will last for years to come, and I know that. I know it will never truly leave. I know that there will always be this empty part of me, and no number of cases would ever fill that dark abyss. I know I will see you in our flat - in every small doctor, or in every man in a hideous jumper, hoping that it's you, but it's not - and I know it will hurt every time, but I'm powerless to stop my wishful thinking. And finally, I know that I will miss you for the rest of my days, and it will only cease when we meet again by the grace of some unknown deity.

So I guess this is where the curtain closes. This is when I have to say the inevitable goodbye. This is where the game ends, though I never thought it would. But it _is_ over - because, John - it would not be the same without you.

However, as I cling to the last of a fool's hope, I am enclosing other things in this envelope.

I'm leaving you a map, and if you will notice, I encircled our address - if in case you have forgotten - so you know where to go, if you want to come home. I'm leaving you money so you can take a cab to our flat - and yes - I will pay the rent, so it will most definitely still be _our_ flat.

And lastly, I'm leaving you a key of 221B Baker Street - so don't worry John, you can come home anytime - you just have to unlock the door.

And I'll surely be there, waiting for the day when you do...

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_**"Right now there's a war between the vanities,**_

_**But all I see is you and me,**_

_**The fight for you is all I've ever known,**_

_**So come home..."**_


End file.
